


Like Two Softened Shoes

by marie24



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Best Friends, Blow Jobs, Coffee Shops, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pining, Writer Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-08-08 01:44:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7738633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marie24/pseuds/marie24
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He sets his laptop on the bed, backing away and running his hands repeatedly through his curls. Okay. This is okay. This is fine. This is not real.</p><p>Will peeks his head around the door frame. </p><p>“Uh, everything okay in here?” </p><p>Harry tries to keep his breathing under control. “Yeah!” he says. “It’s, um, everything’s fine!” He can hear himself talking really loudly. Will looks doubtful.</p><p>“Are you sure? Because it really seems like -” </p><p>Harry barks out a laugh, cutting him off. “Okay! So this is going to sound really strange. But.” He looks at Will, with the same shiny fringe, blue, blue eyes, and sharp cheekbones he’d been writing about the whole last week. He worries his lip frantically between his teeth. “Um. I think I… I think I… wrote you?”</p><p>Or, Harry is a writer who gets through his writer’s block by pouring his feelings for his best friend Louis into a character. A few days later, the character lands in his bed, three dimensional and with no idea how to get back where he came from. He turns out to be very inconvenient for keeping Harry’s feelings to himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Somebody Loved" by The Weepies. 
> 
> Find me on tumblr @recklouisbehavior or my main blog @twentyfourmoons :)
> 
> Thanks to Alice, Amber, and Manon for all your help!! And a big thanks to the mods, I had so much fun being a part of this!

It's 10:24 on a Tuesday morning and Harry is in the closet. The literal kind, with assorted floral shirts and sweaters and boots that leave a glitter trail, not the figurative kind - he's been out of that one since he was sixteen.

It's 10:25 on a Tuesday morning and Harry is in the closet and it's  _ not helping _ . He huffs and slams his laptop closed, then checks immediately to make sure he hasn't broken it. That would be just his luck right now, honestly. He runs his hand through his curls and heaves a sigh, leaning his head back against the wall. How do people actually... write? Arthur Conan Dickhead wrote what, 3000 words a day? Hell, even Nicholas Sparks writes more in a day than Harry manages to (not that he's procrastinated by looking up famous authors' daily averages... nope). He pouts at the black screen in front of him that's reluctantly rebooting. He needs to write.

As the computer's insides whirl angrily, he pushes away a silk shirt that had fallen in his eyes, unfolds his limbs, and pushes open the door, cursing under his breath as his bomber jacket clatters off its hanger and on top of him. He clicks off the lamp he'd dragged in – a fire hazard, but the risk of burning down his flat was worth the possibility of jostling  _ something _ in his brain. It hasn't  _ worked _ , though, and Harry still has a deadline looming.

Harry's lucky enough to be a writer who's actually been published, and young at that. His first published poem shocked everyone, including himself, with its publication in _Poetry Quarterly_ when he was just twenty. He'll remember the day he got the hard copy of the journal for the rest of his life; he spent twenty minutes gaping at his poem, right in front of his eyes in real ink, and the next twenty minutes tracing the _Harry Styles_ under the title in disbelief. That publication set the precedent for his following pieces. It's been mostly poetry and short stories for the last five years as he worked through uni in Manchester and odd jobs, but now he has an advance from a real life publisher, and he's working on a novel that could really, possibly, maybe be good. Well, he thinks it could be. If he could ever actually _write_ the damn thing.

He was on his weekly secondhand bookshop browse when he saw it out of the corner of his eye.

_ Tired of banging your head against your notebook? _ the book's cover read.  _ Then WE have the help you need! _

Although technically he was banging his head against his laptop, Harry made it over to the bargain bin in record time.  _ Writer's Aid for the Practical Mind.  _ He flipped through the pages. He may not have been able to trick even himself into thinking that he has a practical mind, but the publisher's deadline was making him feel more practical by the day. For £2, he was going to get the help he needed.

He flipped through the book on the bus home, heading immediately to the  _ WRITER'S BLOCK _ section. One of the tips was to try going somewhere you wouldn't usually write to give your brain different stimulation than it's used to. Harry figured the closet was quite different than his regular places – the park, the coffee shop downtown that his best friend Louis owns, his desk – so the next day he gave it a try.

Which brings him back to his current predicament.

After huffing around his flat for a few minutes, anger-cleaning the kitchen and bathroom, emptying the litter box, and staring at the ceiling for a while, Harry reluctantly picks up the book again to look for another idea. What can he say? He's desperate.

_ Write your way out of writer's block!  _ The next suggestion, accompanied by a drawing of a startlingly sentient pencil, is to just start writing – even if it's gibberish, even if none of it makes it to the final draft.  _ Write about something that fascinates you _ , it reads.  _ Your pet, your mother, even the flag waving from the window across the street _ . Harry raises an eyebrow. This author lives an exciting life.

Before he can ponder what exactly in his life fascinates him, he hears a key turn in the door. He looks up from where he's sitting at the kitchen table in time to see Louis, laden with books, kick the front door open with his foot.

“Hey Haz!” His voice is muffled as he holds the top book in place with his teeth. His fringe is falling down into his eyes.

“Hey Lou,” Harry replies, coming over to help him set the books on the table. “What's all this?”

“Just some new reads for the shop,” he says as he steps back to check out his haul. “Sometimes the 'take a book, leave a book' system needs a little outside assistance.” Louis flicks his fringe out of his face and messes with it, crossing his eyes as he looks up and tries to get it to sit right again. “What are we doing for dinner? I haven't eaten all day.”

“I dunno, haven't really been thinking that far ahead,” Harry answers as he looks through the stack, making a delighted sound when he finds  _ Wuthering Heights _ . He flips around in it to try to find one of his favorite quotes.

“I knew you'd grab that one.” Louis shakes his head. “And people say  _ I'm  _ the dramatic one, honestly.”

“'If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be,'” Harry reads out melodramatically, clutching his hand to his heart and stalking across the kitchen to Louis, “and if all else remained, and he were annihilated,'” he grabs Louis' arm and pulls him to his chest, “'the universe would turn into a mighty stranger,'” Louis grins as he presses closer and pretends to swoon in his arms, “'I should not seem a part of it.'”

In the silence after he finishes reading, Harry doesn't let go. This close, Harry can count the freckles scattered on Louis' nose. He runs his eyes over cheekbones, scruff, and thin lips, landing in blue, blue eyes. Louis' grin fades into something softer. Harry's sure the room wasn't this silent before. The book's wedged between them, corner digging into Harry's chest, but he can't bring himself to move away.

There's a crash in the living room and they both jump, huffing out laughter at themselves. Louis goes to investigate and Harry sets the book back on the table, hoping he's not red-faced, trying to regulate his breathing into something more natural. Louis comes back into the kitchen snuggling his face into their cat, who's radiating smugness.

“Oh it was just Gibbs,” he coos, “knocked the lamp over because we weren't giving her any attention.”

Harry and Louis had decided to get a kitten when they’d moved into their new flat about three years ago, mostly because they'd both always wanted one, but officially as a reward for their adult handling of the previous Neighbor Situation. They'd gone to the shelter and been absolute saps, spending three hours trying to pick just  _ one _ out of all the cats they met. In the end, a little grey kitten had picked them, clinging onto Harry's jeans with her claws for about twenty minutes and mewing softly every time he tried to pull her off.

Gibbs is short for Waxing Gibbous – yes, the moon phase. Other nicknames include Gibby, Waxy, Waxy Gibby, Gibberous, Waxed Gonads (courtesy of Niall), and any other variation of the name that crosses their minds. Honestly, Harry should've never relinquished naming duty to Louis, but he had batted those eyelashes and promised to do laundry for a month if he could name her. Although Harry knew he'd be doing the laundry again after a week, he had given in. There's no resisting those eyelashes. And anyway, when Louis had explained over dinner, waving his fork around in his excitement and slinging mash on the wall, how the waxing gibbous phase of the moon represents  _ almost but not quite _ , and how that perfectly fit their lives then with Louis just out of uni and Harry with one more year to go, almost adults but not quite, almost really out in the world but not quite, Harry was so endeared that he didn't really mind.

“Plus,” Louis had added with finality, “she's grey.”

“Waxing gibbous” had run through Harry's mind over and over as he’d watched Louis later that night singing softly and swaying his bum while he dried the dishes. Harry and Louis had been best friends since Harry's first day of year ten in Cheshire, when he'd still been curly and chubby and unsure, and Louis had been a year above him, always moving, and loud, loud, loud. For reasons Harry had never understood, Louis had singled him out that first day in the hall. Between Louis' eye-crinkling smile and his gentle hands, Harry never stood a chance.

It took about two years of being Louis' best friend for Harry to realize that the closeness he felt with him was a different kind than existed in other friendships he had. He'd pretty much always known he liked boys as well as girls, but it never occurred to him that Louis was everything until one day Louis grinned and yelled “ _ Harreh! _ ” when he walked into the room, and just like that, he realized Louis was  _ everything _ .

He'd dropped the bowls of soup he was holding all over his bedroom floor, causing Louis to jump up and run to help clean, teasing him with a smile about how clumsy he was as Harry’d tried to recover from his realization. It had been like ripping off his sunglasses in the middle of the afternoon – every time he’d looked at Louis he’d felt blinded, burnt in the best way, his skin red and radiating heat, stretched just too thin over his pounding heart, tender to even the smallest brush of Louis' fingers.

Louis had given him a concerned look after he'd been mostly silent the whole time they were trying to soak the vegetable soup out of the carpet.

“You okay, Haz? You look a little green.” He'd put the back of his hand against Harry's forehead, feeling the warmth he shone reflecting right back at him. “You're burning up, babe, are you alright?”

Harry had still been reeling from  _ babe _ as he got into bed, a word that had slipped so easily past him all those times before. Louis had tucked the blankets around him, then thought better of it and untucked them so he could crawl in. Harry had burrowed into Louis' side.

They’d laid in silence for a few minutes. Harry had heard Louis' breathing slow and turn to the deep breaths of sleep.

“I'm not sick, Lou,” he’d finally whispered, wide awake and holding him tight, “Just sunburnt.”

*

They end up getting takeaway for the second time in as many days and take it to the park near their apartment to eat. It's late May and the rain from earlier has stopped, so with their scarves, steaming noodles, and combined body heat close on the bench, the chill isn't too bad. Harry glances over at Louis, watches him twirl the plastic fork in his Pad Thai with intense concentration - his brows furrowed, the inside of his cheek bitten between his teeth, hair falling into his eyes. Only when he gets the perfect amount of noodles on his fork does Louis raise it to his mouth, careful not to let any fall off. After he swallows, he licks his lips slowly and Harry bites his own, tearing his eyes away and back down to his own meal.

“Hey Lou,” he says around a mouthful, not looking up, “remember when we tried to sneak out of your house and go to Zayn's party?”

Louis laughs.

“And then Phoebe started shrieking? Because she saw us out her window in the yard and thought--”

“we were bogeymen,” Harry finishes with him, laughing. “Your mum gave us the lecture of our lives.”

This is a game they play sometimes, especially if one of them is feeling down: they toss memories back and forth like grapes in each other's mouths, the nostalgia crisp and sweet as it goes down.

“Remember when we actually  _ went _ to one of Zayn's parties and you stabbed me with a fork?” Louis lifts his left hand and points to the – tiny, okay? – scar.

“Heeyyy, I didn't mean to!” Harry pouts. “How was I supposed to know I can't hold my alcohol? I'd never even really been drunk before!”

“Oh you meant to, alright,” Louis shakes his hand in Harry's face. “I still don't understand why you didn't like Aiden, he was a laugh.” Harry grimaces. His memory of the fork situation is a bit blurry, but Aiden had been talking to Louis, flirting, dancing,  _ touching _ , making moves on him like Harry wasn't even there – that much he did remember. Fucking Aiden. He's lucky  _ he _ didn't get the fork, although how Louis did instead is really not too clear to him.

“Remember when I thought it would be hilarious to pretend to cut your hair?” Louis smirks. Harry narrows his eyes, though he can't help how the corner of his mouth quirks up.

“That wasn't funny.”

“Oh but it was...” Louis reaches for his hair now as if to cut off a piece with scissor-fingers.

“You  _ actually _ cut off one of my curls though!” Harry says indignantly, leaning so far away that he's laid over sideways on the bench as Louis' hand moves closer. He can feel the warmth of Louis' body all on his side as he stretches over top of him.

“Hilarious,” Louis repeats with a smug smile. Harry tries to grab his wrist, but Louis' quick, and before he knows it he feels hands poking and tickling at his sides.

“Lou –  _ Louis _ !” he gasps through his laughter. “Quit it!” He squirms around on the bench, trying to get away from Louis' evil fingers, save his food from spilling, and not get hard all at the same time. Finally he succeeds in grabbing Louis' wrists, and he pulls them to his chest, leaving Louis splayed awkwardly across his side, still grinning like he's the one who won as he watches Harry try not to smile. Harry lets him go after a second and pushes him.

“Alright enough, get your fat arse off me,” he grumbles as he sits up. Louis raises his eyebrows and pretends to dust himself off.

“You love my fat arse, Harold. Everyone does,” he says primly. Harry rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, now let me finish my noodles in peace, you menace.”

A minute or so later, Louis turns sideways on the bench so he's facing Harry with his bowl in his lap. Harry can feel his eyes on him and knows what's coming next.

“I said to let me finish my noodles in peace,” he whines. Louis cocks an eyebrow at him and ignores his plea.

“So..” Yep, here we go. “Do you wanna talk about how your novel's coming?” The question is innocent enough, but the determined look in Louis' eyes means that he's not going to take an “I really actually don't” for an answer this time. Harry sighs and lets the silence stretch before he replies.

“I... don't know.” He moves his noodles around with his fork, trying to make a mountain range in the bowl. “I've been trying some different things to help me just, do  _ something _ , but it's just... Nothing's working.”

There's another pause as Louis lets him form his next words. He's always been good at letting Harry's thoughts “bake,” as he calls it. “You leave your thoughts in the oven a little longer, Haz,” he'd said one tipsy night, laying in his driveway back in Cheshire with a cheap bottle of wine. “That just means they're more done than mine are when they eventually come out.”

“I just...” Harry trails off again. He looks up at the sky. The sun's throwing its last rays over the trees and everything looks golden. He turns to look at Louis, who's bathed in the fading light and whose eyes are gentle and who's looking at him like he already knows. “What if my writing's no good this time? Or like, ever again? What if I've already peaked? What if I... If I...” He waves his arms in a vague gesture that he hopes conveys  _ completely fail  _ so he doesn't have to say the words out loud. Louis puts his arm up on the bench behind him, a warmth on his back that he wants to curl up inside. He looks at Louis helplessly.

“Harry, listen,” Louis begins after a beat, grabbing the ends of his curls and threading his fingers through them lightly. Harry leans his head into it. “So first, there's no such thing as you peaking. Like, even if your writing is never as good again as it has been – which is not going to happen by the way – you'll still always be getting better at  _ something _ . I know you. Like,” he makes a slightly frustrated noise, “I don't know how to explain it right, but I just know that even when you're 85 years old you'll be, like, telling me how you're thinking of taking up fencing or some shit.” Harry snorts. “Hey, I'm serious! Okay, I'm not doing a very good job of this,” he laughs a little, “but really, love, you're  _ going _ to write this novel and it's going to be the best damn novel anyone's ever read. I've got all the faith in the world in you.”

Harry feels warmth spread through him like it always does when Louis shines. He closes his eyes again, a small smile on his face this time. They sit and listen to the sounds around them for a while – faint conversations, the trees rustling in the wind, the crickets starting to sing as the sun finally makes its way below the tree line. Harry eventually breaks the silence.

“So we're still gonna be best friends when I'm 85, huh?” 

Louis chuckles, tugging a little on his curls as he replies.

“'Course. You can't get rid of me that easy.” 

Harry gives him a half-smile. “Would never want to.”

*

Harry is in the meat aisle of Tesco when Louis finds him the next morning, staring at the different cuts of beef and contemplating their textures. Louis comes up next to him and just stands for a minute.

“Harry.” His voice still has that scratchy morning sound that Harry can't get enough of.

“Louis,” he answers without turning his head. He makes a bet with himself that Louis is wearing his grey joggers, the wrinkliest t-shirt from his floor, and the burgundy beanie he stole from him years ago.

“Harry,” Louis repeats. Harry turns to look at him – yep, he just won ten quid off himself. “What are we doing in the meat section of Tesco at this ungodly hour?”

“First of all, it's nine. It's hardly an ungodly hour. Second of all, you're a stalker and you followed me here, so I really don't owe you answers to anything.”

“Any hour before eleven is ungodly, Harold, honestly. Especially on my day off,” Louis says, rolling his eyes. “Also I'm not a  _ stalker _ , I'd just got up for a wee and noticed you were gone, and then I remembered you were out of eggs and sorts so I figured you'd be here. Now the meat aisle?” He shrugs. “That one has me stumped.”

Harry's silent for a beat. He doesn't really know why he's in the meat aisle, to be honest. Something about the way the pieces are all cut and squished together in plastic makes him feel sad.

He needs to get out of the house more.

Louis is watching him carefully. He claps his hands once, startling Harry into almost dropping the eggs he's holding.

“Alright, I've got it!” he says cheerfully. Harry eyes him dubiously.

“Got what?”

*

“So I'm pretty sure we can make it to the elephant talk at 11:30, then if we hurry we can get over to the giraffes in time to hear that talk too!”

The “what,” Harry found out when they got home, turned out to be a day at the Chester Zoo. Currently, Louis' looking at his phone, telling him excitedly what all their exhibit options are as the countryside speeds past them out the train window.

Harry watches Louis fondly as he squints a little at his phone screen. No matter how many times he tells him that his eyes will only get worse if he doesn't wear his glasses, at least when he reads, Louis stubbornly refuses to admit that he needs them. Louis' foot pushes up against Harry's leg as he crosses his ankle over his knee, and Harry rests his hand on the ankle presented to him, tickling the triangle tattoo there until Louis starts kicking him.

“We should bring the twins down here sometime,” Louis mumbles, scrolling through the descriptions of the animals they have on the website. Harry watches his profile as he reads. He loves Louis’ little siblings like his own, but what he really wants is to bring his own children to the zoo one day. Well, his and Louis’ children, ideally. He can see it so clearly in his mind - how sweet Louis would be with their child, beaming that soft, sunshine smile and being so gentle. He feels something twist in his chest. That will happen one day. But not with him.

He immediately tamps down on the gloomy feeling – no pining allowed today. This little day trip is a blatant attempt at making Harry feel better, and he knows it's going to work because Harry loves the zoo almost as much as he loves spending time with Louis. He just has to  _ not _ think about how different this would be if it were a date.

Really, it wouldn't be much. A little hand holding – literally, Louis has the littlest, cutest hands he's ever seen – maybe a kiss in a dark corner of the aquarium, sharks swimming above them and wishing they could be the ones to get their fins on Louis. Okay, maybe that's a bit far, but it would just be... nice.

So much for no pining.

He's shaken out of his reverie by Louis whacking him on the thigh.

“We're here, Hazza, come on!”

*

When they get to the first exhibit, Harry's mood lifts exponentially.

“Oh my god, look!” He hits Louis' arm repeatedly. “Oh my god, there's a baby elephant,  _ look _ !”

“I'm looking!” Louis laughs. “It's adorable.” Harry's leaning over the railing.

“It's more than adorable, Lou, it's – god, have you ever seen anything so perfect in your whole life?” Louis laughs again and shakes his head as Harry murmurs, “Hi baby elephant, hiiii!”

After the highly enlightening elephant talk, they head to the giraffe one, where Harry’s hand (to Louis’ delight) gets covered in giraffe slobber. Then Harry drags Louis into the butterfly house, where they get swarmed and Louis tries to pretend he's perfectly comfortable with the situation, even though they both know he hates anything with wings being within a meter of him. They eat overpriced fish and chips and buy each other overpriced stuffed animals in the gift shop, Harry's an elephant and Louis' a little lion.

His back is pleasantly sweaty, his curls have gone flat and frizzy from being out in the elements all day, and Harry can't be arsed to care. They grab ice cream cones for the ride and head back to the train station.

They're quiet on the way home, Harry watching from the corner of his eye as Louis licks the last of the ice cream from between his fingers, his pink tongue darting out and back in over and over. When he puts a whole finger in his mouth to suck the final stickiness off, Harry lets out a tiny noise and quickly looks away, passing his own sticky fingers through his hair in an attempt to settle himself down. It's ridiculous, but it's so hard for him to see anything other than Louis.

All of a sudden it hits him.

When they get home, Harry tells Louis that he found some real inspiration today at the zoo, and thank you so much, and it was just what he needed. After a quick kiss on the cheek, he locks himself in his room and pulls out his laptop, crawling into the closet again just in case that does happen to help anything along.

Harry writes, and he writes, and he writes. Memories of Louis, descriptions of Louis, metaphors of Louis, how he feels about Louis, he pours everything  _ Louis _ into the document. At around midnight, he gets an idea – why not actually write a character based off Louis into his novel? He could change some details and add in some different personality traits, tweak him a bit, but still give him the essence of Louis. He would at least be interesting then, unlike most of the other characters he'd written so far.

  
So he writes some more, this time about Will, a 20 year old law student. He writes descriptions and ideas for possible scenes and backstory, even sketches out some foils to him in potential friends and enemies. By the time 3am rolls around, his back is in terrible shape from hunching over his computer beneath his hanging shirts, and the character is really beginning to come together. Harry honestly feels like he could float out of the closet with how elated he is that  _ something _ is finally happening in his mind. He should've known it would come back to Louis. Everything in his life does.


	2. Chapter 2

 

As the week continues, Harry's writing doesn't stop. It's like the dam has been broken, and everything inside of him that was lapping at the edges of his brain a week before is now cascading out directly into his story. Their apartment feels lighter than it has in months, and they decide to have a boys' night for the first time in weeks, inviting Liam and Niall over for dinner and FIFA that Friday night.

“I thought we were never gonna see you again, mate!” Liam claps Harry on the back and plops down the beer he brought onto the kitchen counter. Harry laughs.

“You and me both, Li. I've had a time of it with writer's block the last few months, and I really don't want to jinx it, but I think it's finally over.”

“Well I'm happy for you,” Liam says, just as Niall walks in, grinning big and hefting pizzas in his arms.

“Got the pizza!” he calls.

“Fuck off Neil, I was gonna cook something for us!” comes Louis' voice from the living room. Niall frowns.

“Well don't get your knickers in a twist, it'll keep till tomorrow,” he yells back. Harry can hear Louis rolling his eyes from the kitchen.

“Oh whatever, might as well eat it while it's already hot,” and Louis' in the kitchen grabbing the beer off the counter and whisking it to the living room. “Come on then!” he yells. “FIFA waits for no man!”

*

A week later, sunlight’s shining through his closed eyelids and the drip of their leaky kitchen faucet is breaking the morning hush. Harry snuffles and digs his head a little farther into his pillow. He drifts up from sleep slowly, tightening his arm a bit around the person next to him– Wait. Person … next to him?

Harry freezes, suddenly wide awake. What happened last night? He wracks his brain, carefully trying to remove his arm at the same time. Had he gone out last night? Had he _pulled_? Louis was with his family for the weekend, but he doesn't usually go out at all when he's home alone. The only reason he isn’t with Louis right now is that he wants to hopefully get a chapter draft finished up this weekend. The person in his bed ( _in his bed_ ) turns under his arm, now facing Harry. Oh. Harry relaxes for a second – it's just Louis.

But no – it isn't Louis, is it? They look incredibly similar, no doubt. The boy has almost the same facial structure, but looks younger than Louis is now - no facial hair and sharp cheekbones. He also has lots of smooth fringe, all of which is currently smashed against Harry's pillow ( _Harry's_ _pillow_ ). Quite beautiful, really – well, of course he is, if he looks like Louis. Honestly if it weren't for the morning breath blowing in his face, Harry would think he had hallucinated an angel into his bed.

The boy takes a deep breath all of a sudden, sleepily blinking his eyes open. They widen when he sees Harry beside him and he starts back, giving Harry the chance to quickly pull his arm away.

"Um," Harry begins eloquently.

"Um!" the boy squeaks back.

"So... I'm not sure... I mean, I don't know -" the boy sits up and his eyes flit around the room as Harry stammers, "I just.. I'm sorry, but I'm really not sure who you are or how this happened," he finally ends up with. The boy looks at him again.

"Well... I'm Will. And I don't know how this happened either." He squints at Harry suspiciously. "Wait, how old are you? Did I actually manage to pu-" he stops short, blushing. Harry chuckles nervously, running his hand through his hair.

"I'm uh, 25. And honestly, I don't remember anything happening last night. I mean, what I mean is... I don't think I even went out? I just remember coming home from work and - and you know, just doing normal Friday night stuff." He isn't quite ready to admit to the pretty boy in his bed that "normal Friday night stuff," especially when Louis is out of town, mainly includes heating up frozen pizza and binge-watching _House of Cards_.

Will's still eyeing Harry, but now looks more confused than anything else.

"Wait... Do I know you? You seem really familiar..." he trails off.

"You know, I was thinking the same thing," Harry admits, "I could swear I've seen you before."

They sit in silence for a second.

"Sooo..." Will looks around awkwardly. "Shall we, um, get out of bed then, maybe?"

Harry nods and pulls the covers off himself, only to slam them back down over his body, face beet red.

He sleeps naked. Right.

He glances over at Will, but the boy's turned his face away and only his pink-tipped ears are visible.

"Um," Will squeaks again, then clears his throat. "Um... How about I just -" Keeping his eyes averted, he stands up, then furrows his brow.

"Okay, let me get this straight. I'm fully clothed, you're naked, I was in your bed, and neither of us remember last night. Have we somehow entered a Katy Perry song?" He puts his hand on his hip and raises an eyebrow at Harry, and it's such a _Louis_ mannerism that Harry is momentarily speechless.

He recovers by shaking his head at the Katy Perry reference and gesturing for Will to turn around, which he does with a bit of a huff. Grabbing pants, some skinny jeans, and his old Rolling Stones t-shirt off the floor, Harry darts into his bathroom. So he wouldn't technically be opposed to being naked with Will, already _had been_ apparently, but (as he tells his morning wood) now is definitely not the time to be thinking about that.

When he emerges from the bathroom, a little more put-together, Will's sitting on the edge of his bed, looking around and shaking his leg up and down. He immediately stands up when he sees Harry.

“So I was thinking about all this…” He pauses for a second, sweeping his fringe off his forehead. “And well... you didn’t like, you know... “ Will trails off. Harry furrows his brow in confusion.

“I didn’t what?”

Will grimaces. “You know! Like... kidnap me or something?” He rushes it out, his voice rising nervously.

“What?!” Harry’s eyes widen and he immediately puts his hands up. “No no no no, I mean, you can leave whenever, like, I don’t even know you, I mean, I didn’t even leave my apartment last night, like,” he knows he’s stammering and probably not making any sense, but _kidnapping?!_

“No no, it’s okay, yeah,” Will shakes his head, laughing awkwardly, “sorry, sorry, I just couldn’t think of another explanation? But I mean, there has to be one.”

“Yeah, there does…” Harry thinks back, looking for a gap in his memory, but he really feels like he remembers the whole night. It’s like Will just appeared in his bed sometime while he was sleeping. “So… What’s the last thing you do remember from last night?” Harry asks, then doesn’t give him time to answer before he changes his mind, “Actually, you know what, before we talk about that, let’s eat something.”

A kidnapper wouldn’t feed him breakfast, right? He’s not a kidnapper. Obviously.

Harry fixes them some eggs. To his surprise given the situation, conversation flows pretty naturally. Will is quick on his feet and gives as good as he gets, even laughing sometimes at Harry’s jokes before he rolls his eyes. Gibbsy takes to him oddly quickly; it’s usually a few hours before she’ll even come in the same room as anyone other than Harry and Louis, but it seems like the minute she sees him, she’s rubbing against his leg, purring when he smiles and scratches her head.

When they start eating, and Harry’s convinced that Will doesn’t think he’s a kidnapper anymore, he decides it’s time to get serious again. There has to be an explanation for this.

“Okay, so, do you remember anything at all from yesterday? Afternoon, the evening?”

Will takes a bite of egg, contemplating. “Well, I was hanging out with my sisters in the afternoon because my parents were out. I remember braiding one of my youngest sister’s hair, and then I ordered in for dinner because they wouldn’t quit whining about wanting noodles.” He smiles fondly.

Harry pauses with his fork halfway to his mouth. Okay. Just weird coincidences.

“Then after dinner, we watched _Peter Pan_ because it’s the twins’ favorite, and -”

Harry stops chewing. What?

He interrupts with the food still in his mouth - “Wait, sorry, how many younger siblings do you have?”

Will smiles. “Six, five sisters and one brother. I know we’re a big family, but we really love -”

“What are their names?”

Will seems a bit taken aback, but answers, “Um, well, there’s Lottie, Fizzy, well actually, her name’s Felicite, but -”

Harry stands up abruptly, ignoring Will’s startled exclamation, and runs to his room to grab his laptop. He boots it up, tapping his fingers on the keyboard as he waits impatiently for the logon screen to appear. This is probably ridiculous. He’s being ridiculous.

“Come on come on come on,” he mutters, typing in his password and pulling up the draft of his novel.

He hears a roaring in his ears as he scrolls through. What the _fuck_? All mention of his character Will is gone from the draft - the descriptions he’d added, the dialogue, the scene sketch he had done of him braiding his sister’s hair and ordering noodles in and fucking watching _Peter Pan_ , it’s all _gone_. And when he checks his planning document it’s all gone from there, too.

He sets his laptop on the bed, backing away and running his hands repeatedly through his curls. Okay. This is okay. This is fine. This is not real.

Will peeks his head around the door frame.

“Uh, everything okay in here?”

Harry tries to keep his breathing under control. “Yeah!” he says. “It’s, um, everything’s fine!” He can hear himself talking really loudly. Will looks doubtful.

“Are you sure? Because it really seems like -”

Harry barks out a laugh, cutting him off. “Okay! So this is going to sound really strange. But.” He looks at Will, with the same shiny fringe, blue, blue eyes, and sharp cheekbones he’d been writing about the whole last week. He worries his lip frantically between his teeth. “Um. I think I… I think I… wrote you?”

Will’s quiet for a beat. He cocks his head at Harry. “You… wrote me?” He sounds skeptical.

“Yeah, so here’s the thing. I live with this guy named Louis, right? And I’m, well, I’m kind of like, in love with him? But he doesn’t know, anyway, I’m writing a novel and I decided to write a character based on him, ‘cause you know, he’s, well anyway, I named the character Will because William’s his middle name and I thought it wouldn’t be like, obvious that way, but I still gave him Louis’ family, just for now, I mean I was gonna change their names and other stuff eventually but come on, like, his two oldest sisters’ names are Lottie and Fizzy and like, I wrote the exact scene you described like, two days ago, noodles and everything, and you look exactly how I described him and I mean - your name’s Will for god’s sake!” Harry’s practically in hysterics now, waving his arms and only half trying not to shriek his words because what the _fuck_.

Will looks stunned. He blinks at Harry for a second. He opens his mouth, but before he can get a word out, Harry’s talking again.

“And you know what else, I just looked at my draft, and you’re _gone_. You’re gone! Any mention of you in my writing is _gone_ , what the fuck is that about, also, you just showed up in my bed last night, neither of us know how, how did that happen? I mean, like, I mean, how - how did that happen?” He loses steam, panting, arms falling to his sides. Will is staring at him with wide eyes.

“Are you serious?” Will questions, gripping the door frame like he’s about to fall over. “You’re not serious, right? That can’t be true.”

“I don’t know how the fuck I am, but I am so serious. I am so serious right now.” Harry feels like he’s going to pass out. He needs Louis. Louis would know what to do.

He can’t tell Louis about this, what the fuck is he thinking? He wrote the character _based_ on Louis, that would be an embarrassment he would never recover from, oh god, he’s going to have to figure this out without Louis, oh god.

He plops down on the bedroom floor and puts his head between his knees. “What the fuck.”

“What the fuck,” Will echoes quietly, slumping down the door frame till he’s sitting across from Harry.

When he feels like his breathing has calmed from a stampeding buffalo to more of a mildly excited puppy, he looks up at Will. His eyes are closed and his hands are visibly shaking as he wrings them. Harry slowly scoots closer.

It’s okay. He can do this. This is fine. He’s just comforting a character from his novel that’s come to life and somehow landed in his fucking bed last night, this is normal, right? He can do this.

He puts his hand on Will’s knee, startling him.

“Hey, no, it’s okay, listen, this is super weird, like, literally the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to me, but we’re gonna figure it out, okay?” Harry tries to sound reassuring as he pats his knee. “I have no idea what we’re going to do,” okay, so much for reassurance, “but we’ll, we’ll do something, okay? We’ll fix this somehow.” Will takes a deep breath.

“We - we will, we’ll fix it,” Will says, and Harry knows that neither of them even know what “fixing it” means, but at least they’re semi-coherent now.

And they will, right? They’ll figure it out. They’ll fix it.

*

Harry hears the water turn on in the bathroom and lets out a breath. Will had asked if he could shower, and Harry had been more than happy to let him. He needs to figure out what the fuck is going on, and he can’t do that with _a_ _living character from his book_ looking him in the face like he’s supposed to know what to do here.

He pulls out his phone, debating. He finally decides to call Niall.

Then after Niall laughs him off the phone, he calls Liam, silently begging him to pick up. He thinks he may have had some kind of marathon today (gross), but it was probably in the early morning (double gross) and will be over by now.

“Hello?”

“Liam!!” Harry exclaims as soon as he hears his voice, “Liam Liam Liam.”

“Harry?” Liam sounds confused already and he hasn’t even started in on the story yet, not a good sign.

After a bit of waffling, Harry explains what’s happened in his morning so far. Of course, Liam doesn’t believe him at first. He doesn’t come out and say it, not wanting to hurt his feelings probably, but it’s rather obvious.

“Look Harry,” he says gingerly, “have you been smoking again? You know you get all weird when you smoke pot, and even though you say it helps you write, I’m really not sure that it does.”

“Liam,” Harry hisses. Apparently he’s trying to see how many times he can say his name in one conversation. “I am not kidding. Okay? I wrote a character. This character is now alive, in my flat, singing Louis’ favorite The Fray song in the shower. And I do not know what to do.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes. “Liam please, I’m freaking out here,” he pleads.

Harry can feel the second he starts to take him seriously.

“Okay,” Liam says slowly. “Okay, so you’re telling me that you wrote a character based on Louis and when you woke up this morning, he was in bed with you?”

Harry huffs. “Yes, that’s what I just said like, a million times.” Liam ignores his snippiness, bless him.

“And you’re asking me what you should do about it?”

“Well, yeah! I didn’t know what else to do, I figured you might have some advice or something.” Harry hears the shower turn off and the curtain slide open. He’s gotta wrap this up. “So, quick, yeah? Any advice? Like, you know, what the fuck am I supposed to do?”

“Well,” Liam pauses for a second. “Have you tried like, getting him near the computer again? Maybe it will just… suck him… back... in?” He sounds extremely doubtful. Harry rolls his eyes so hard he thinks they’ll get stuck.

“First, I can’t believe you just said ‘suck him back in’ unironically. Second, you are no help at all.”

Liam makes an indignant noise. “Hey, there’s no precedent for this, okay? What am I supposed to say?”

Harry sighs. “I know, Li. Thanks for believing me, anyway. He’s out of the shower so I gotta go, but like, call me if you have any ideas please?”

“I will. Keep me posted. It’ll be fine, Harry, really. Don’t worry.”

He sounds worried. Harry can relate.

Will walks out of the bathroom about a minute after Harry’s hung up, pushing his wet hair over to the side and swimming in a pair of Harry’s old joggers and a stretched-out t-shirt. He looks so much like the 20 year old Louis who used to snuggle down into Harry’s bed for their dodging-class Netflix binges that Harry kind of wants to cry.

“Anything?” Will asks, looking hopeful. Harry shakes his head.

“Sorry, I have been thinking, I just really have no ideas.” That’s partially a lie: calling Louis is an idea, but since that’s not going to happen, he’s got nothing else that sounds even remotely practical.

In the next hour they go through anything and everything they can think of, including Liam’s idea of putting him near the computer. Will stands very still in the middle of the living room, and Harry tries it from different angles, sometimes pushing in quickly towards Will, laptop open, sometimes sneaking up from behind and slowly bringing it close.

Eventually, in a particularly ridiculous stance, Harry starts laughing, and once he starts, he can’t stop. The situation is just so much. All of a sudden it’s like he can see himself, dancing around Will, darting the laptop in and outward. Soon Will starts laughing too, and before they know it, they’re doubled over, wheezing and crying and hanging onto each other for support.

Finally they collapse on the couch, trying to catch their breath.

“Hey, so,” Harry says, still panting a little, “seems like everything we’re doing is completely useless and we’re basically just looking like fools. Do you wanna just, like, watch a movie or something? Because I’m honestly at a loss here.”

Will is nodding his head before Harry even finishes. “That sounds great. It’s a tiring job, having a laptop flung at you in a bunch of different weird ways. Plus, your curls are looking more... threatening by the minute. Do you have _Grease_?”

Harry closes his eyes.

“Yes. Yes we do.”

As the movie plays, Harry wishes Louis were there, though Will does a good enough job of singing along to Louis’ favorite parts. What even is today? He has no clue what to do to fix this. This whole thing is entirely beyond him - like, he apparently created a _person_. Louis would flip.

Actually, that’s the one clue he does have about the situation: he has to keep Louis away from Will. If he can just do that much until they figure the whole thing out, he might be able to make it.


	3. Chapter 3

Keeping Louis away from Will lasts about as long as any other secret Harry has tried to keep from him: about 24 hours.

“I'm hooommme!” Louis bellows, throwing open the door. Harry's head whips up from his laptop.

Oh shit. Sunday brunch.

“Harold!” Louis yells as he makes his way to the living room. “You better not still be sleeping!” Harry can hear him clattering around the kitchen, and he frantically looks around, trying to come up with some way to get Will out of here before he comes in. “Sunday brunch! I brought some more bread because I remembered a few days ago we -” he stops short in the doorway at the sight of Harry in the guest chair, gaze flicking guiltily between Louis and Will, who's occupying Louis' normal spot on the couch. Louis' brows furrow.

Shit.

“Uh, Louis!” Harry jumps up and tries to stand nonchalantly. Where does he normally put his arms again? “Yeah, Sunday brunch, thanks for getting the uh, the bread!” He runs his hand through his hair, and he _knows_ he's smiling his awkward stretched-out smile, the one that shows all his teeth at the same time, but he can't seem to remember how to work his face properly. “So, uh.”

“Who's this?” Louis interrupts his rambling. He grins at Will in what seems to be a friendly way, but his eyes aren't crinkling and his teeth look sharp. Harry swallows.

“Uh, Louis, this is— this is, Will. He's uh, he's— ” Harry can feel his smile slowly turning into a grimace. “He's my cousin?” Shit. That sounded like a question. Louis' face turns confused.

“Your cousin? Which side?” _Shit_. Louis knows all about Harry's family, has met practically all of them, _fuck_ why didn't he think about that?

“Oh, he's from my, my mum's side, he's uh— ” As Harry stammers helplessly, Will jumps in.

“Yeah, I'm actually his second cousin though, and, uh, I'm thinking about going to uni up here so my mum thought I could stay with Harry while I... visit and uh, check things out.” He smiles bravely, flicking his fringe out of his face and doing a much better job of standing normally than Harry is. “It was kind of last minute.” Louis still looks suspicious, but less so.

“Okay well... Nice to meet you then, Will.” Harry silently thanks the universe for Will's quick thinking. Crisis averted – for now at least, as he sees the “we'll talk later” look Louis' throwing his way. “Alright then, on to brunch! Can you cook?” Louis asks Will, and Will shrugs.

“Sort of? I mean, I've never really tried.”

Louis walks him through how to cook the bacon and then fixes the eggs while Harry fixes the beans and toast. After everything's done, they all sit down at the little kitchen table and feast, Gibbs meowing for scraps that Louis pretends he isn’t giving her as Harry rolls his eyes fondly. Louis stretches and rubs his belly when he's finished.

“What's the point of a Sunday if there's no Sunday brunch, honestly.”

Harry makes a noise of agreement from behind his mouthful of beans, scraping up the rest of the liquid on his plate with his last bit of toast. Louis leans his chair back on two legs.

“So what are we up to today?” he asks, looking from Harry to Will and back.

Okay, Harry hasn’t thought this far ahead. He takes his time swallowing. “Umm, you know,” what was their cover story again? “just thought we’d take a look around town, you know, show him the… the ropes.” He smiles in a way he hopes is convincing, even though he just said “show him the ropes.” Honestly, Styles, get it together.

“Oh!” Louis claps his hands together, apparently still letting the weirdness slide. “We can take him to Roast Goat!”

“Roast goat?” Will repeats dubiously. “What’s that?”

“My coffee shop!” Louis beams proudly. “Come on, leave the dishes for later, H, this is the best thing he’s gonna see the whole visit!”

*

As they walk up to Roast Goat, Harry sees Will raise his eyebrows. A picture of a goat with ridiculously long horns adorns the sign, and a cup of coffee sits steaming beside him. Above the entrance is a sign that reads, “Without my morning coffee I’m just like a dried up piece of roast goat,” with a smaller “-Bach” underneath. Will laughs.

“Bach really said that?”

Louis grins widely. “He sure did. And thus my coffee shop’s name was born.”

Harry remembers the night they’d found that quote. It had been just before finals in his third year of uni, and he’d been in Louis’ room, kicking his feet against the side of the bed as he procrastinated his eighty million final papers. He’d been watching cute goat videos for about twenty minutes while Louis snored softly beside him, curled up in an impromptu nap. When he had looked at the time and thoughts of his neglected schoolwork had rushed back to him, he’d decided to dive even deeper into putting it off and scroll through the comments on his current video: “goats playing in my field pt 3.” Tucked in between an involved political debate and a great pun (“whatever floats your goat,” genius), Harry had found it. He had guffawed so loud, it had woken Louis up, who’d grumbled a bit before sitting up. He’d rubbed at his eyes cutely as Harry continued to laugh.

“What is it, Haz?”

Harry had read it to him, and as soon as they verified its authenticity, Louis had known it was the perfect inspiration for his coffee shop’s new name.

All through uni, Louis had worked at the coffee shop - “The Bean,” as it had been called before. The owner was an elderly man, Duncan, who’d lived in Manchester his whole life and had owned the coffee shop almost as long as he’d lived there. His wife had died a few years before Louis started there, and his only daughter lived down in London with her wife and kids. The place had become a bit decrepit as Duncan aged, but kept enough business to stay open.

During his senior year, Louis had basically been in charge of both running the shop and taking care of Duncan, who lived above it. He’d brought him groceries, made sure he’d gotten to his doctor’s appointments, and when Harry had gotten to uni the next year, the two of them had frequently had game nights with him. Most days they’d gone over for tea if they could, the afternoon sun pouring through the window and warming them as Duncan told them stories of his family and listened to theirs.

Louis had studied drama in uni, and the March before his graduation, he had still been looking for work. Harry had known it was stressing him out that he didn’t have anything lined up and didn’t even really know which direction he was going.

One afternoon while they had been having tea, Duncan had gotten up and left the room without saying anything. Harry and Louis had exchanged glances as they waited for him. He had come back in with a stack of paper that he slid across the table to Louis. Harry had been confused, the confusion turning to concern when Louis had looked up with tears in his eyes.

“You don’t have to do this,” Louis had said, his voice shaking.

“I know,” Duncan had replied. “I want to.”

Harry had looked back and forth between Louis and Duncan, slowly getting an inkling of what was going on.

“I’m getting too old for this and we all know it,” Duncan had continued. “I’ve decided to go down to London to stay with my grandbabies, and there’s no one else I’d want to have this shop other than you, Louis, if you’ll have it.”

Louis had had real tears running down his face by then, and he’d gotten up to wrap the old man in a hug. They’d signed the papers and taken care of most of the formalities, Louis laying in Harry’s bed that night and talking till the sun came up about all the worries he had, all the ideas, all the things he could do with the place.

In the following months, he’d worked with friends and neighbors to remodel - to bring it up to code, first of all, and also to pay homage to what had come before while still giving it his own touch. Duncan had come up for the reopening, and Harry’d thought he would burst with pride as he’d watched Louis flit around, interacting with baristas and guests, coming back to Harry every so often to grip his arm and beam as he whispered manically, “Haz, can you believe it?”

Harry had beamed back and pulled him in for a hug every time, always replying, “Oh I can believe it, Louis, please. You’re amazing. This place is going to do amazing.”

Obviously, the Roast Goat has indeed done amazingly. He's increased revenue by a ton and even won a few local awards, including “Best Coffee Shop.” Louis loves the business and takes care of it like he knows Duncan wants him to. Harry loves being in there when he's working, watching him laugh and concentrate and direct. He's grown up so much from the brash, lovely teenager Harry knew, and if it's possible, he loves him more now than he did then.

*

As the three of them walk inside, they see Zayn fixing drinks behind the counter. The sleeves of his white tee are bunched up at his elbows, and his brow is furrowed in concentration as he finishes off a latte.

“Zeeeeeeeeeee!” Louis yells, startling him and causing the milk he’s pouring to go everywhere. He glares at Louis as Harry giggles.

“Seriously?”

Louis smiles proudly. “What? Just saying hey! Anyway, this is Will,” he says as he straightens the coffee supplies in front of the machines. “He’s Harry’s second cousin apparently, here for a visit.”

Zayn nods at Will while he finishes drying the milk off his hand. “Alright?”

Will nods back. “Alright.”

“Zayn lives here,” Harry explains, “upstairs, where the old owner used to live.”

“From the generosity of my hand,” Louis begins regally, and Zayn reaches over the counter to smack him on the side of the head. “Ow! Okay so the deal is he doesn't pay rent, he just works here instead.”

“‘M a poor artist,” Zayn says ruefully, but doesn't actually look too upset about it.

“He did the walls in here!” Harry adds. “Aren't they cool?”

Back when he was redoing the shop, Louis had asked Zayn to paint a mural on the walls, using a poem for inspiration.

“What’s that one poem, Harry?” he’d asked, scrunching his nose cutely as he tried to remember. “You know, the one with the coffee and the anesthesia… And like, mermaids?”

“The coffee and anesthesia and mermaids?” Harry had racked his brain. “Um wow... I’ve got nothing, Lou, you’ll have to give me a little more than that.”

Louis had made a frustrated noise, putting his hand on his hip as he thought it over. “You know it, you read it to me just the other night!”

“Oh!” Harry had laughed. “You mean ‘The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock’?” He couldn’t believe Louis remembered that; he’d read it to him one night a couple weeks ago when Louis had crawled into his bed because he couldn’t sleep.

“Yeah, that’s the one!” Louis had exclaimed, clapping his hands together. “Use that one, Z, and there’s a line about coffee in it - make that part like, really noticeable.”

Harry had pulled up the poem on his phone so they could look through it together.

“‘I have measured out my life with coffee spoons’ isn’t actually supposed to be like, a good thing in the poem, you know that, right Lou?” Harry had asked.

Louis had rolled his eyes.

“Not everyone coming in here’s going to be a famous fancy author like you, Styles, they won’t have a clue. Go with it, Zayn, it’s perfect.”

Harry had shaken his head at the “famous author” bit, but the mural had actually ended up looking sick, so Harry’d supposed it was alright.

Will admires the walls, turning in a circle trying to read the poem through, and Zayn hands Louis a drink. He takes a big sniff and sighs dramatically.

“Ah, nothing like a good cuppa in the afternoon.”

Will raises his eyebrows. “You own a coffee shop and you're drinking tea?”

Harry makes a face at Zayn and mouths, “yikes,” then steps back, Zayn quickly busying himself with something behind the counter.

“William. Will,” Louis begins, shaking his head. “I know you're still young and naive.” Will gives a squawk of protest. Louis just talks louder, “but you need to know that while coffee is good, and don't get me wrong, I appreciate it – I mean, I grind it up and it gives me money - tea is better. And here's why -”

Harry rolls his eyes fondly as Louis waves his arms around, explaining in great detail all the benefits of tea and how it blows coffee out of the water in every way. He's heard this speech maybe two hundred and four times.

“Hey, so what's up with Will?” Zayn asks quietly. Harry leans on the counter. Be cool.

“Nothing really, I mean he's my second cousin. He's thinking about uni up here and our mums arranged for him to visit, that's all.”

“Cool.” There’s a pause. “He kinda looks like Louis, yeah?”

Harry sputters. “Uh, what? No, I don't think so. Yeah, no, I don't see that at all.”

Zayn gives him a look. “Okaaay. I guess he doesn't then. So how long's he staying?”

Harry feels a little like he's been punched in the gut. He hadn't really thought about what would happen if they couldn't find a way to get him back. Would he have to stay with them indefinitely? How would that work? Would he even get older?? What’s the precedent for book characters coming to life?

He also couldn't keep a secret from Louis for that long, it wouldn’t be possible. The only secret he's ever successfully kept is his undying love, and even that sometimes he thinks Louis knows. Sometimes Louis looks at him in a certain _way_ , and Harry has to close the shutters.

Harry imagines he has shutters behind his eyelids that he can open and close, depending on how safe he's feeling. He doesn't like to close them at all, prefers being open with people to a fault, but sometimes he has to do what he has to do. They're never ever closed when he looks at Louis – not unless he sees that certain look in his eyes, the one that Harry can't pin down exactly, the one that scares him.

“Heyo, earth to Harry?” Zayn's snapping his fingers. “I asked how long he was staying, did you hear?”

“Yeah yeah, sorry,” Harry chuckles nervously. “Sorry, I was just off somewhere.” Zayn rolls his eyes. Harry’s mind being off somewhere is not exactly an unusual situation, so thankfully he lets it slide. “Yeah, uhhhh, he'll be here about a week.”

Well he just made that up, so he hopes he's gone within the week. Not that it wasn't ridiculously awesome to have a character from his book standing in front of him, but also... it's weird. And it makes him feel something he hasn't felt in a really long time: the urge to sit Louis down and just let everything spill out.

It's so... tiring, is the thing. Keeping a secret from his best friend. If he wasn't sure it would ruin everything, he would've told him the moment he dropped that vegetable soup.

*

On the way home from Roast Goat, Harry feels weird. Louis and Will are getting along famously now, which is weird. They're sitting across from him on the bus, and Harry can feel Louis' eyes on him every so often. He just so desperately doesn't want to ruin them, especially not after he's been so good about it for so long, but he's feeling something brewing in his chest that doesn't bode well. He'll just have to keep it down, that's all. Just like he’s done all the other times. Everything will be fine.


	4. Chapter 4

Will’s settling in on the couch - _not_ Harry’s bed, thank you - as Harry walks into the bathroom where Louis’ brushing his teeth.

“Hey Haz,” he says, garbled through a mouthful of toothpaste. He leans over and spits into the sink, and Harry smiles at the foam caught in his scruff when he turns to him. Before he can catch himself, he’s rubbing the corner of Louis’ mouth with his thumb to get it off.

Louis stays still, trying to catch Harry’s eye. Harry keeps his eyes trained on Louis’ lips, rubbing the prickles under his fingers long after the foam has gone. Louis catches his wrist.

“You okay, H?” he says. His soft voice makes Harry’s insides hurt.

“Mhm.” Harry nods a little. Louis’ eyebrow raises.

“You wanna sleep with me tonight?” he persists.

Harry shakes his head. “‘M fine.” He feels Louis’ fingers burning his wrist where he’s still caught in them.

“Alright.” Louis searches Harry’s eyes, and Harry tries to shutter them, but it’s a halfhearted attempt at best.

Louis pulls him into a goodnight hug that Harry doesn’t let last too long, and Harry watches his bare feet pad to his room.

After he brushes his teeth and washes his face, Harry stares himself down in the mirror. He feels something building in his chest.

In his room, Harry strips down to his boxers and gets into bed, but doesn’t get under the covers or turn his lamp off yet. The light through the lampshade turns the room yellow like the eggs Louis had fixed for breakfast that morning, or like sunshine when he closes his eyes tightly against it.

He turns off the light and rolls onto his side, facing the window. The moon’s shining through the open curtain and Harry can’t figure out which phase it’s in. If it’s waxing gibbous, it’s so close to full that he can’t tell the difference.

He hears Will turn over on the couch and their leaky faucet drip and Gibbs give a sleepy meow. Harry closes his eyes against the moonlight, curling up tighter and feeling like he’s about to come out of his skin.

Finally, whatever’s in his chest builds up too far, farther than it ever has before, fighting to come out of his mouth, so he gets up, running his hand through his curls and swallowing several times as he makes his way quietly down the hall.

Louis’ door is cracked, and he’s halfway sitting up on the bed when Harry opens it, obviously waiting for him. Harry makes his way over, stepping over the dirty clothes all over the floor illuminated by the moon, crawling in under the covers with him like he’s done so many times before. Louis opens his arm and Harry rests his head on his chest. He feels it rise and fall beneath him and tries to match his heartbeat to the one beating inside Louis.

Louis plays with his hair, and they sit in the darkness and silence for a few minutes. Harry tells himself it’s peaceful, but he can feel that somehow the something in his chest has moved out without his permission, making the air heavy in the room.

“Haz,” Louis whispers finally. Harry burrows further into his side and shakes his head. Louis tugs gently on his curls. “Please, love. Talk to me.”

Harry takes a deep breath, then another, then another. Louis waits. Finally Harry opens his mouth.

“I’m -” his voice comes out too loud and low, so Harry stops to clear his throat. “I wrote. I wrote Will after you.”

Louis’ confusion is palpable.

“You... wrote him after me?” he asks.

Then Harry explains into the quiet everything that’s happened over the last two days, the truth about who Will is and how he had gotten there. Louis is silent for a long time after Harry finishes. Harry bites at his lip and flexes his fingers on Louis’ waist as he waits.

“You’re not taking the piss, right? You’re serious?” he eventually asks.

Harry nods against him, rumpling his shirt up a little.

“You like… made a person.”

Harry nods again.

“Wow,” Louis says, and Harry feels him shake his head above him. “That’s… incredible, H, and so... weird.”

Harry laughs a little. “I know.”

“So what’s the... Like, why didn’t you want to tell me? Did you think I wouldn’t believe you or something?” Louis sounds a little hurt. Harry clears his throat.

“Well, I…” he trails off. “It’s just that I, I wrote him based on… you, because...” his voice gets quieter, “so I didn’t really…”

“But why would you be embarrassed about that? That’s fucking cool, yeah?”

Harry’s quiet. He can almost hear Louis thinking. He can definitely hear Louis’ annoying clock ticking and his own mind screaming at him that this is a terrible idea.

Louis’ fingers stop moving through his hair and Harry tenses, waiting for him to nicely, awkwardly ask him to leave and please never sleep in his bed or touch him again.

“Harry?” Louis’ voice is just a whisper. Harry doesn’t reply, just tightens his grip on Louis’ shirt. He doesn’t want to go.

“Harry,” Louis’ voice is more insistent, and he’s tugging him up till they’re face to face.

Harry sees Louis’ eyes searching his in the moonlight, and for the first time, he doesn’t try to hide.

When he daydreamed about what would happen if Louis somehow ever returned his feelings, it went much differently than this. In his daydreams, their first kiss was passionate and sexy and they immediately went for each other's clothes, the tension finally breaking.

Instead, their first kiss is tender – Louis' lips pressing against his, his hands cupping Harry's face, Harry leaning on him with his hands spread out across Louis' waist, trembling with the weight of the moment.

And Harry’s shaking, he can't stop shaking, and he's gripping Louis like his life depends on it. In this moment, it does. His life depends on this moment being real, on Louis being here, wanting him the way Harry's wanted for so long.

Louis pulls away just far enough to whisper, “You're shaking, Haz.” He rubs his hands up and down Harry's arms while Harry keeps his death grip on his waist. “S'okay, love, I'm here. Hey, I'm not going anywhere.”

Harry hears what sounds like a whine come from the back of his throat, and he buries his face in the crook of Louis' neck, wrapping his arms around him in a way he's done a thousand times before. Right now, it somehow feels brand new.

Louis smooths his hands up and down Harry’s bare back, kissing the little curly hairs above his ears, giving him a smack of a kiss on the cheek that makes him giggle, then tilting his chin up to kiss him a gentle smile.

Harry pulls away after a few kisses, looking Louis in the eye seriously.

“I love you,” he says slowly, and Louis’ face breaks out in a grin. “I love you, Lou, I love you,” and he kisses him again, this time swiping his tongue over Louis’ soft lips. They part for him and Harry exhales sharply at the first glide of their tongues together. The inside of Louis' mouth is hot and wet and arousal sparks in his belly. He can't believe this is happening.

Louis' hands are everywhere at once as they kiss, up and down his back, dipping below the band of his boxers to grip his arse, tangled in his hair. When he gives a sharp tug to his curls, Harry gasps, breaking away from his lips and rutting his half-hard cock down onto Louis' leg.

“Knew you'd like that,” Louis murmurs, pulling it again and kissing down his neck as Harry pants, his cock filling rapidly. He’s going to have beard burn from how Louis’ mouthing at him and the thought makes him moan. Louis gives another tug to his hair and sucks hard right under his ear at the same time, and Harry keens then scrambles to sit up, desperate to get his hands on him for real. He shoves Louis' shirt up around his armpits, and Louis leans back and laughs a little.

“Oh it’s coming off, babe, don’t worry,” he says breathlessly and throws it across the room. Harry climbs on his lap and sits back on his thighs, openly admiring Louis’ body, tattooed and hard and soft and curved. He's seen it so many times before, but never like this: exposed and vulnerable, just for him. Louis looks a little shy as Harry stares hungrily, which is unexpected. Harry tweaks his nipples and that makes Louis squirm, which is not unexpected.

“You like that?” Harry asks, his voice lower than he thinks it’s ever been, grabbing them and twisting a little harder. He'd known Louis' nipples were sensitive, had wanked many times to the thought of getting his hands and mouth on the little buds, seeing if he could make him come just from playing with them.

“God,” Louis gasps as he twists, then leans down to take one of them in his mouth, “yes, ah.” He arches his back off the bed as Harry sucks. Harry can feel the hard line of his cock underneath him and he grinds down, Louis moaning above him.

Harry feels Louis pulling him up and he goes easily, kissing him deep as Louis ruts his cock up against his arse. Louis pulls away from his mouth a little.

“Haz,” he says urgently against his lips, “Harry, wanna suck you. Is that okay?”

Harry moans, leaning back and pushing the heel of his hand against his throbbing cock.

“Fuck Louis, yeah, fuck,” he answers, and flips over onto his back. Louis hovers over him for a second, smiling, fringe falling in his face. He gives him one more lingering kiss, then makes his way down Harry's body.

He mouths at Harry through his boxers for what feels like whole minutes, laving from the tip all the way down to his balls, getting him soaking wet. The heavy drag against his cock is both more than he can take and not quite enough; when Louis bites down gently, Harry has to grip the sheets, trying not to come before he even gets his pants off.

When Louis finally pulls them down and breathes right over where Harry wants him, Harry throws his arm over his eyes and whimpers, “Louis, please,” and apparently that's all the encouragement he needs.

The next thing Harry knows, his cock's engulfed in the wet heat of Louis' mouth. He cries out when Louis pushes his tongue right up against the sensitive underside of the head. His body feels like a furnace as Louis takes him down over and over. He can feel sweat beading at his hairline, and he tries desperately to keep his hips from bucking too much.

It feels like Louis' hungry for it, taking as much in as he can, breathing heavily around the tip rather than pulling off all the way, lapping at his slit like Harry's precome is the most delicious thing he's ever tasted. When he cups Harry's balls and gently tugs at the same time that he takes him down as far as he can, Harry feels his toes curl and his mouth hang open.

“Lou, _Louis_ , oh _fuck_.”

He lifts his head up and Louis lifts his eyes at the same time. Harry can see their blue in the moonlight and when he sucks hard, it's like sparks fly through his veins and it's _Louis_ , it's Louis, his loud, his gentle, his best friend, his _everything_ and he only has time to gasp out, “ah, ah” before his body contracts and he's coming. His fingers fly down to grip Louis' shoulders and his whole body shakes as he shoots down his throat, a string of “yes yes yes” spilling out of his mouth.

Louis' eyes are glazed when he pulls off and he's grinning a little. He’s still got a bit of Harry's come in his scruff and it’s driving Harry _wild_. He can't get his mouth on Louis' fast enough, can't press close enough. Louis’ body up against him smells like sex and Harry and nighttime and sweat, and he moans when Harry licks into his mouth to taste himself, leaning into him.

He can feel Louis' cock unbelievably hard against his softening one, and he realizes Louis still has his pants on, which is ridiculous. When his cock hits the air, Louis inhales sharply, grabbing onto Harry's shoulders and waiting for him to touch him, panting.

Harry wraps his big hand around Louis' cock, already slippery from precome, tugging in different ways to figure out what he likes best. When he gives a short pull that just catches the head, Louis almost doubles over, groaning, “Oh _fuck_ , Haz.”

“Feels good, baby? Like that?” Harry asks, moving his hand faster in short strokes. Louis seems to have lost the power of speech, but he's nodding into Harry’s shoulder and making these little noises in the back of his throat that Harry wants to bottle up and keep forever.

Harry pulls his chin up with his other hand. “Wanna see you,” he says, and Louis’ fringe is sweaty and pushed back, his lips are shiny and swollen, his skin’s glowing in the faint light, and his eyes are looking into Harry’s like they always have and like they never have before - so, so bright.

Harry speeds his hand up a little more, flicking his thumb over the head on the upstroke, and murmurs in Louis’ ear, “You’re so beautiful, Lou, so gorgeous. Never thought I’d get to see you like this, never thought I’d get to touch you, god, I love you Louis, I love you,” and with that, Louis breaks his silence with a shout, shuddering and coming all over Harry’s hand.

They’re both panting as Harry strokes him through it, and as Louis comes down, he buries his face in the crook of Harry’s neck.

“Wow,” Louis breathes. “God, Harry, I can still taste you.”

Harry’s cock twitches at that, trying to go for round two. He wipes his come-covered hand on the sheets on the side of the bed, and Louis whacks him on the chest.

“Ew, gross! Get a flannel, what are you doing?”

Harry rolls his eyes.

“Way to spoil the mood, Lou,” he says, grabbing him up tight in his arms and throwing them backwards on the bed. Louis protests, but it’s not long till they’re tangled up comfortably, just looking at each other.

“Well,” Louis begins after a minute. “That was pretty… amazing.”

Harry huffs a laugh. “It really, really was.”

“And by the way,” Louis reaches up and runs his thumb over Harry’s cheek, “I love you too, you wanker.” His eyes are full of affection, and his smile crinkles his eyes maybe more than Harry’s ever seen them crinkle before. Harry can feel himself beaming back.

They spend a few more minutes talking and kissing each other just because they can, eskimo and butterfly kisses included (Louis loves every second, even though he pretends it’s too cheesy for him). Eventually, they fall asleep, Harry curling up small on his side and Louis spooning him from behind. The last thing Harry remembers before he’s asleep is the lightest kiss to the nape of his neck, and he falls asleep smiling.

*

Sunlight’s shining through his closed eyelids and the drip of their leaky kitchen faucet is breaking the morning hush. This morning Harry knows who’s next to him, and he, very lovingly, shoves him off from on top of him - good god, it’s like sleeping next to the sun, he’s so warm at night.

He stretches and yawns, turning to look at Louis. His face is slack, and he’s drooling onto the pillow a bit.

Harry loves him.

He can’t keep the smile off his face as he remembers what happened the night before. Louis loves him back. _Louis loves him back_. He pushes his hair out of his eyes and reaches a hand out to gently wake Louis up.

All of a sudden a crash comes from the living room, and Harry jumps as Louis startles awake.

“Hazza? Wassat?” he says sleepily, his brow furrowed and his eyes half-lidded. He goes to push himself into a sitting position but collapses. Harry rolls his eyes. Louis is useless in the morning.

He walks into the living room, expecting to see Will apologetically sweeping up a dish or something. What he finds is no sign of Will, and a very unapologetic Gibbers, who had apparently shoved her empty food bowl off the counter in protest of their lie-in.

Harry picks up the cat bowl - at least this one is plastic - and looks around for Will.

“Will?” he calls, but there’s no sign of even the blanket and pillow he had used on the couch. “Will?” he says, a little more hesitantly. After searching the apartment, he goes back to Louis’ room and shakes him awake.

“Louis, wake up, Will’s gone,” he says. Louis groans and stretches, the blanket slipping all the way down his chest and stopping just at his groin, okay, good grief. Harry drinks in his tan, tattooed skin, glowing in the morning light. Louis looks at him with one eye open and says,

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” a small smile on his face as he preens a bit. Harry shakes his head.

“Yes, well while I would definitely like to take multiple pictures, I woke you up because Will’s gone.”

“He’s just like, gone?”

“Yeah! I can’t even find the pillow and blanket we lent him! Maybe he like, just walked out?”

“On the street with the pillow and blanket?” Louis sounds skeptical. “I don’t think so, babe.”

“Well then where -” and then Harry knows. He jogs to his room to pull out his laptop, booting it up and pulling up his draft.

Sure enough, Will’s right back in writing where he belongs, with the addition of one pillow and one blanket. Louis comes up where he’s sitting, wrapping his arms around him from behind and kissing the top of his greasy curls.

“So he’s back in the story?” he asks.

Harry nods. “Looks like it. It’s kind of sad, I liked the guy.”

“Well I’d hope so, if he was supposed to be me!” Louis says, indignant.

Harry laughs. “I guess you’re right.” He keeps scrolling through the draft, seeing the scenes and other bits that had been gone that are back again. At the end of the draft, just as Louis leans down to kiss his cheek and go make breakfast, Harry sees something in a slightly different font than he uses.

“ _If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn into a mighty stranger. I should not seem a part of it.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment and let me know what you think :) Again, you can find me on tumblr @recklouisbehavior - Thank you so much for the kudos and comments so far, and thank you so much for reading!!


End file.
